


Treacherous

by Lacertae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Chains, Consensual Sex, Fingerfucking, M/M, Mentioned Doomyatta, Mindfuck, Multiple Orgasms, Omnics, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 21:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20298544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae
Summary: *Sigma/Zenyatta*There is a melody within Zenyatta that Sigma craves to own -but it evades him, always out of reach, and while he does not mind a good challenge, all he wishes for now is to lose himself in it.





	Treacherous

**Author's Note:**

> Sigma is a weird character to work out for porn, hah. Mostly because I have a lot of pity for his particular state of mind. This moves from porn to weird to porn but I hope it's pleasing!
> 
> Vaguely tied to a previous one-shot I wrote with Reapyatta and Doomyatta, though not enough to tie them together. It is absolutely standalone.

**Treacherous**

The corridor is empty, and well lit, just like every other in the building, full of non-descriptive doors that lead to many similar rooms.

It is maze.

Siebren has grown used to it, ever since he was moved from the isolate, remote laboratory to the main headquarters, but he pays little attention to his surroundings, his mind focused on what awaits him.

The room is rarely empty –visitors seem to come by often, though always the same faces, but Siebren keeps to himself, waiting until a chance arises for him to go alone; solitude allows him to listen to the now familiar thrum of music, to get lost in it, and he cannot truly let himself go if there are too many others around.

People talking, or interacting with him, makes him feel… uncomfortable. Restricted.

That, at least, is a familiar feeling, not a new one brought on by his… accident. Siebren has always felt upset by too many people around him, talked over and brushed off despite his brilliant discoveries, but after his… ‘accident’, the melody now a constant companion, people only seem to damper the sound, make it harder to listen to.

They matter none to him –with gravity at his disposal, with the universe itself unravelling for him if he follows its tune, people are… meaningless.

Except.

The one who waits for him –who waits for anyone willing to take a break in his room– has few words, but each of them is a note to the melody that surrounds Siebren, completing it, continuing it. His entire existence is proof that the music is real, that the universe saw fit to give him power; he can feel it thrum under his fingertips and within his mind, yet there is still so much to learn, to use, to build and reach higher and higher…

For a moment, he floats higher, overwhelmed by the crescendo of his song as his heart thrums in tune, excited at the prospect of more, more, grab and harness and use to bend the world to his whims–

–then he shivers, the music falters and drowns away, subdued.

Recently, he has to focus harder to hear it… it is why these visits bring him such joy.

He remembers their first meeting.

Akande –Doomfist, he was told, but Siebren has little use for code names… even his own is little else but an afternote, what do names matter when the universe exists even without them?– has introduced them, one hand pressed down on the lithe omnic’s shoulder even as Siebren observed with little care.

There are always blanks in his mind –he truly focuses only when he’s working, when he can feel the hum of the music guiding his way– but he will never forget this moment when the music shivers inside him, its tempo faster, louder, wisps of it wrapping themselves around his skull.

The universe halts, then hastens around him, vibrating, on the edge of something big.

For the first time in forever, Siebren focuses on something that is not his studies.

He _remembers_ the tilt of the omnic’s head, the way his optical receptors follow him, unmoving, as Siebren circles around him, mesmerized by the hum of the air around the omnic, familiar yet not, in a way that leaves him confused.

Curious.

_Wanting_.

There had been words, then –the omnic had murmured something to Akande who’d answered back, fingers tightening their hold on his shoulder, but Siebren had not listened, instead humming quietly, one hand stretched to caress the omnic’s faceplate before he caught himself, displeased at his own hurried action.

And then–

A flash of gold.

“You can touch,” the omnic had said, and this time, Siebren heard him. Above the music and his own heart, the omnic’s voice had been clear, understandable.

Surprised, Siebren had obeyed, instinctively reaching out.

The omnic’s metal had felt cool under his fingers, smooth, but there was so much more to him than that, a curious wrapping that hid within a symphony unlike any Siebren had ever heard, the notes muted and dull under his touch, inviting him to hear more.

Startled, he’d pulled away, and the song had ended, but the universe was still vibrating in a staccato, almost disjoined, mourning the loss of the sweet accompanying melody.

“Does it interest you?” the omnic had looked up at him, and his forehead array had flickered once, dipping from teal to something lighter, whiter. “Do you _feel_ it, Sigma?”

“It is inside you,” he had replied. “I want it out. I want to hear it.”

At their side, Akande had simply smirked, predatory, satisfied. “It is a deal, then.”

Siebren had been far too focused on the music, louder now, to see the small, cautious glance the omnic had sent Akande, and then him as well.

Since then, Siebren has visited the omnic –Zenyatta– many times, each time tasting the music on his tongue like a thick liquor, yet never satisfied. He feels when others come to him, he feels the music strong through walls, enticing him, but their presence sullies it, sullies Zenyatta’s music, and Siebren waits, displeased, until he can take his turn.

There is something he offers others that he does not give to _him_.

The music grows strong, blinding, until it becomes golden light, but never overwhelming, never blossoming for him no matter what he does, like Zenyatta is withholding it from him, like he’s not ready, like he’s not _worth_ it–

Like he wants him to earn it.

Like he wants him to _take_ it.

The world can bend to his will, Siebren knows. This is just one more test, one more equation, one more mystery he can unravel if he gives it enough time, enough focus.

And he does, with pleasure.

Unravelling the mystery that is Tekhartha Zenyatta with his fingers, his mouth, his mind–

Let it be known that Siebren is not one to give up easily.

***

“I was expecting you.”

Zenyatta is alone in the room, lights a little low, and they wrap his frame in shadow, allowing his optical receptors to burn brightly. He is turned towards him only in part, metallic chains wrapped around his wrists, tied to the ground, and as he raises one hand to greet him, they make soft, metallic sounds.

Siebren spares a displeased look at them –after the first few times, he’s come to learn his sheer control of gravity is not appreciated in this context, no matter how pleasant it is to watch Zenyatta unravel while he is holding him high off the ground, untouched by anything except his own powers, the matter at his disposal and his words.

Yet, as he looks, Zenyatta’s fingers caress their length, metal on metal, knowing Siebren’s eyes are on him, and his previous thoughts come to a halt –what if this is just another thing Zenyatta is using against him, to prevent him from having all of him, all of his music?

The thought sparkles a light of anger somewhere deep inside him.

He found those shackles useful at times, while others they were simply in the way, but he never asked, having assumed Akande had ordered them to be there.

Zenyatta has never appeared bothered by them, even making a show of tugging on them while Siebren curled around him, and today, as he turns fully towards him, revealing his unclothed body to him, prepared, awaiting him, Siebren feels his blood boil, and the music inside him surges towards Zenyatta like a jolt.

“I thought you would be pleased if I was ready for you,” Zenyatta murmurs, and the tilt of his voice is amused, teasing. “I know you… dislike wasting time.”

Before, Siebren would have been caught in the music, caught in the view, surging forwards to catch every note, but his new goal, his growing desire to drag the full melody out of him, allows him a moment of clarity, and in this moment his mind calculates, observes, catalogues, eyes sharp and mouth parted.

Now he notices, and his lips tilt in a vicious smirk.

“You have,” he says, his voice dropping into a throaty sound. “Yet it is never enough, when you do not give me what I crave.”

The tilt of Zenyatta’s head is familiar. “Perhaps,” he says, “or perhaps it is simply for a lack of trying.”

For a moment, the song builds within his mind, louder than his own heart, than his thoughts, his vision goes blurry and the world unravels around him –Zenyatta becomes a glittery, misty blur, golden and teal and delicious in the way it calls for him, and Siebren stumbles, inches forwards and watches his own blurred fingers, a black so deep it sucks light away, reach for that light to take it within himself.

Then he grunts and his vision is pushed back together like a snap, leaving him disoriented.

If he had been walking, he would have fallen on the ground, overwhelmed by the truth of the world. Instead, he does not remove his eyes from Zenyatta, even more in awe at what he sees.

It is there, in front of him, yet just out of reach.

“Have you tried hard enough, Sigma?” Zenyatta’s voice is soft, but it is an invitation, and Siebren hums.

“Perhaps not,” he says, and he means it. “But there is certain beauty in trying hard.”

Amusement colours Zenyatta’s tone. “Indeed. You are here to learn, after all.”

The chains around his wrists rattle when Siebren manipulates gravity, tugging Zenyatta higher in the air, they shake then tense when he reaches the highest point, his frame long and sinuous and pleasing to the eye as Siebren circles around him, admiring the view.

Polished metal and shiny chrome, with little imperfections and impurities that speak of Zenyatta’s previous life –before Talon, before Overwatch. The long line of his legs calls to him, and what rests between them, covered by a modesty panel.

“I want all you can give me, and more,” he murmurs, and Zenyatta chuckles, distantly, and parts his thighs.

“You can _take_,” he says. “What you see is yours.”

That, Siebren knows, is a lie.

Zenyatta does not belong to him –nor to the Reaper, the shadowy man who visits and makes Zenyatta scream.

One could say Zenyatta belongs to Akande… but even that would be wrong.

Zenyatta belongs to the music, the universe, and himself, but… Siebren can do with a little lie, once in a while. He is but a man, after all.

The modesty panel slides away with little preamble, and Siebren feels cheated –he wanted to be the one to fight for this privilege, but Zenyatta stopped him by giving himself to him while holding onto what Siebren wants the most.

He notices it better, now.

It almost stings –but he has not lost yet.

Siebren floats higher, his body towering over Zenyatta’s, and he brings one hand to caress the naked expanse of his chest, where his core is, hidden between layers of metal. Under his touch, he feels it thrum, welcoming, with a soft, even tempo.

He splays his fingers and slides them down, eyes never leaving the soft, gentle surface of Zenyatta’s faceplate, caressing a path down his chest, then his midsection, then his hips and the delicate area of his crotch, avoiding the inviting, smooth curve of his valve to turn to the sensors hidden in the folds of his inner thighs.

Zenyatta makes a soft noise, like a breathless laughter. “How long?” he asks.

_‘How long will you deny your song?’_ is what Siebren hears, just underneath the surface, as the staccato within his mind stretches to wrap around him, around Zenyatta. This close already, he’s almost overwhelmed by him, the intensity of his anticipation, of his desire, is like a jolt on his skin.

The answer is not pleasing –Siebren cannot find it in himself to refuse the universe and its gifts– but this time… this time he has to try.

He knows the real reward will be a greater melody, and he hopes he will surround himself with Zenyatta’s cries soon enough.

“For as long as it takes,” he answers.

His touches are slow, deliberate. He toys with the song in his head for every fraction of metal he explores, daring to linger closer to his core, where he can feel the echo inside Zenyatta answer it, luring him in, then moves away, a pang of regret when he feels the tune call for his return.

He finds the nodes and sensors on Zenyatta’s body with his calloused fingers, led to them by the soft, little trembles as Zenyatta arches into him, arms so tense underneath him, tied down by his chains, that he cannot move them to lead Siebren where he wants him.

With every little jolt, Siebren knows he’s bringing him pleasure.

There is poetry there, in the sounds he can drag out of this omnic, sweet and soft and almost breathless for one who does not need air, and Siebren finds that it is almost addicting.

Where before he would be already buried within him, lost in the melody he can hear and feel as it thrums on his skin and within him, seeking it to wash over him anew, now he’s focused, sharp, almost desperate yet forcing himself to slow, to drag the pleasure out of him, and the difference it makes is enormous.

Zenyatta shudders where he’s holding him afloat, the little warm clutch between his legs twitching when he ignores it, caresses down a path on his inner thighs to let thumbs run on the edge of the inviting folds before retreating, and is rewarded by a spike of heat and notes in the back of his head, loud enough to make him dizzy, and by a dribble of teal slick running down Zenyatta’s thigh, staining it.

“Slow, slow,” he murmurs, even as Zenyatta arches back, offering the pleasing sight of his pistons and neck to him, thighs open wide to expose his valve, begging for him to plunge inside. “I am not here to rush.”

He watches, eyes sharp, as Zenyatta makes a soft noise, both amused and needy, hands clenching into fists at his sides. He watches, as Zenyatta’s prosthetic cock clicks and slides out of its sheathe, already glistening with a bead of lubricant right on its tip. He watches, mesmerized, at the beauty of it all.

“Nnn… not even if I ask for it?” Zenyatta says, voice shaky, and Siebren makes a show of thinking about it, hand moving to grasp that cock, familiar with its shaft as much as the valve underneath.

“And are you?” he asks back, lips curled in a wry grin.

“Hmmm… that would be too easy,” Zenyatta tilts his head back, bares the curve of his neck and pistons to him. He’s so open, so pliant, but the fire within him makes Siebren aware this is all a show for him.

Zenyatta does not want him to think –he wants him to act… and oh. His thoughts were correct.

“Why,” he asks, thumb delicate as it rubs over the sensors on the tip of Zenyatta’s prosthetic cock, “do you resist me? Your music is mine.”

“Is it?”

Taking back his words from before, then…

Siebren’s eyes tighten. “It _is_ mine. _You_ are mine. The universe answers to me, why would you not follow, when everything leads to me?”

He does not realise it in his anger, but the building emotions have expanded his control. There is little in the room other than Zenyatta and the anchoring chains, but all of it now floats high above the floor, bobbing down as he loses control of himself, focus solely on Zenyatta.

His eyes slip again –golden washes over his vision, and the melody reprises, just out of reach, teasing, taunting, expanding until it almost takes over, until he almost–

“_No_.” Siebren grunts, pushes back, disoriented, heart thumping in his chest, skin buzzing with static. His shoulders shake, jolt, and he finds he’s pushed Zenyatta’s legs further apart with his hands, holding them open for him.

Again, he almost lost himself, but it would–

“Not _enough_,” he says, and then repeats it like a mantra as he holds Zenyatta still, both of them hovering in the air.

He is aching, his own cock painfully hard, and it’s almost surprising to feel it, where before he would have emerged from within Zenyatta in the aftershocks of a climax, now he’s left to feel the desire, the need burn within him as he denies himself again.

Somehow, it feels more like a win now.

“I will have all of you,” he says –a promise– and his hand rolls down to press, flatly, against the gentle curves of Zenyatta’s valve. “I will accept no more compromises –only your light.”

The slow, gentle slide of his hand between his legs keeps Zenyatta from answering as Siebren runs his fingers and palm against his folds, feeling the wetness drip on them with every careful little rub. It could almost pass as human –it’s warm, deceivingly so, and smooth and soft, and stretches under his careful ministration like a human one would, welcoming, but Siebren’s goal is another, and he does not intend to get lost in this.

Zenyatta tries to take control of his own levitation, but Siebren chides him quietly, a murmur against his auricular receptor, and his finger curls around Zenyatta’s nub, rubbing it.

A roll of his thumb has Zenyatta jerk into him, a constant caress with the side of his thumb down the opening of his valve has it flutter with need, wanting something to push inside; his other hand slides behind Zenyatta, dipping into his lower back where his circuits rest, so he can slot his fingers where the sensitive sensors hide, playing them one by one, basking in the needy sounds he steals from him.

He’s familiar with this body, with what to do to get Zenyatta to react and push into him, but he knows it’s never been enough to truly have him drown, and that is what he wants, today. He wants his music, he wants to listen to it in a concerto around him together with his own, wants them to merge into one within his mind, until he will never be free of it, until it will guide his hand and mind, until he can bend it to his will and use it, create and destroy and _control_ through it–

Siebren jolts back to attention when Zenyatta seizes against him, and finds he’s breeched him with a finger, pushing inside him to the knuckle; Zenyatta pushes into him, little thrusts of his hips, and he chuckles.

“No, my dear,” he murmurs. “Not yet, my bad.”

He twists his wrist and Zenyatta surges downwards, body forced horizontally until he’s floating on his back, arms stretched underneath him, the only thing keeping him anchored into a place.

His servos are tense, body spread as far as it can be, thighs splayed apart so Siebren can slot between them, the beauty he finds there welcoming him back.

Another day, he might taste, but not today. Today, he’s observing, and it is far too easy to get lost in this omnic.

With one hand, he spreads the folds of Zenyatta’s valve, watches the glistening slick pool on its edge and smears it with a thumb, running his fingers all over, slowly, feeling the minute trembles of Zenyatta’s frame as he’s forced to feel, unable to push against him.

He knows it’s been longer than ever before, prides himself in having surprised Zenyatta in such a way. After all, he is in control, not him, he owns him, he guides the music–

Slow, then slower, Siebren caresses folds and nub and sensors, methodical in his actions as he stares, catalogues the way Zenyatta’s sounds grow in tone, become a little less controlled, a little more desperate as he finds no respite to his gentle touches.

He does not push inside, careful to keep his touches continuous but gentle, and drinks in the small little moans and the way Zenyatta’s body tenses and jolts in the air for him, responding to him like an instrument to its player, and truly, Zenyatta’s music is beautiful, wrapping around him louder and louder, yet…

Yet, it still evades him, Zenyatta desperate and shaking yet not allowing himself to let go like he does with others, eluding Siebren, keeping him from the prize he knows is there.

Like he is not enough, like he does not own the knowledge of how the universe works, like he’s not as good, not as worth it, as others in Talon–

“Perhaps I have been far too gentle with you, my dear,” he murmurs, eyes narrowed, and stops.

His fingers are wet and glistening, and there is a small trickle of slick that drips right down below them onto the floor as Zenyatta’s valve twitches against his palm.

Zenyatta makes a soft, needy sound that bubbles like laughter, a hiccup that makes Siebren shift higher, so he can look down at his faceplate.

“And what is it that you find so funny?” he asks.

Zenyatta strains against his chains, futilely, and spreads himself so open it would be almost indecent, but Siebren finds it alluring, almost adorable.

As if he thinks he will get _more_, if he exposes his beauty in such a way.

“You never are,” Zenyatta murmurs, but there is heat there, in his tone, that tells Siebren that Zenyatta craves the mean thrusts he usually deploys as he fucks him to climax.

The words, the pose –Siebren almost stutters, but reins control of it.

“Not yet,” he tells himself.

Zenyatta is still able to talk –that is not good. Unless he loses himself to the music, Siebren will not get what he wants.

The fingers in his back dig deeper and Zenyatta jolts again, a garbled moan making his cock twitch. Maybe he has to be mean, now –rip away his mind, make him stutter, until there is nothing except pleasure, until Zenyatta gives in…

He slips his fingers inside Zenyatta’s valve, the slide so easy with how wet he is, and then he pushes them as far as they can go, watching with hungry eyes as Zenyatta seizes and clenches around them, forehead array faltering.

Siebren feels how tight Zenyatta is around his fingers, clenching down on them, and he pushes his fingers deeper then tugs them out, starting a fast, mean pace. The sound of wet slapping is loud, lewd, but Zenyatta’s soft cries are louder, and Siebren’s lips tug in a pleased smirk.

“Ah–”

Now, this is better –leave him with no chance to think, to speak, get him incoherent, drag that music out of him…

Zenyatta tugs uselessly at his chains, choked up whines coming out of his synth, but Siebren doesn’t relent, he continues to fuck into him with two fingers, thumb dragging over his nub, his other hand reaching into his back, brushing against sensors and wires.

His own cock aches, hard enough to be distracting, but there is something delicious in this restraint, in denying himself, and he shudders, refusing to buck into the pliant body so close to his own, afraid to get lost in it if he so dares to indulge.

Soon.

Soon he will have all he wants.

He watches, eyes wide, as Zenyatta is surrounded by a thin, flickering glow, painting his metal with gold. It is familiar, this is as much as he’s gotten before, too lost in Zenyatta’s self to feel more than a touch of the music, and it’s there, thrumming under the metal, so close to the surface, so close to him, and–

Oh, he can almost taste it, it is enough to make him dizzy, between the beauty of Zenyatta spread out like this just with a touch of his hand and the golden light that accompanies the music, Siebren swallows on his dry mouth and his cock aches with need, and he fucks into him harder, wanting that music to explode, wanting it to surround him, envelop him, tell him the mysteries that he’s yet to know, he wants to own Zenyatta next, bury himself into him and come, he wants–

Zenyatta shudders, a small gush of lubrication rushing down Siebren’s hand, and he realises with a start that Zenyatta is coming, gasping and shuddering, climaxing all over his hand, whining and clenching down on his fingers, and the golden light ebbs, dims…

“No!”

With a jolt of disappointment and anger, Siebren pushes his fingers inside him harder, thrusting him forwards, desperate, as Zenyatta rides his climax, denying him his light.

Furious.

“_I will not let you_.”

Dark matter coalesces in his hand, as easy to call forth as it is to float, and Siebren feels the pulsating, throbbing energy tickle his fingers and then expand as he thrusts them back inside Zenyatta.

He feels a ripple go through his hand, he sees Zenyatta jolt and make a strangled, choked sound, he sees his body writhe, feels the dark matter expand inside him, and Siebren’s eyes widen when the golden light falters, Zenyatta’s forehead array shifting to something darker, purple, pulsating, purple bubbling over his chassis–

Ethereal, purple arms seem to sprout from Zenyatta’s back, arching underneath him, and the chains snap.

Siebren stumbles backwards, aching, wanting, shocked, one hand slipping out of Zenyatta’s back, the other still lodged deep inside his valve –and Zenyatta arches his back and screams, a mix of pleasure and pain, and Siebren feels him tighten around his fingers, constricting like a clamp, and he feels and sees Zenyatta come again, and–

The purple overcomes Siebren’s vision as the delicate, subdued music within Zenyatta changes abruptly, is snuffed out, and a new, discordant one rises in the air, taking over him.

“What–!”

He has nowhere to go.

The music overwhelms him, shuts down every other sound, steals his breath, steals his sight, and all his other senses disappear, and he sees–

It expands within him like breathing, but dulled out, dark, the pressure almost unbearable. The melody is loud, strident, but even as he jolts back, falling on the ground below them, Zenyatta still floating above him like a dark, pulsating star, he feels himself craving that sound.

All of the golden he’s seen before while lapsing is now deep, unforgiving purple, swirls of it reaching out towards Siebren, and…

It is–

The opposite of perfection, the opposite of good, its like a tide, it takes over him, and he feels his body shake and expand past his limits, his mind reaching out, seeing something sinuous and dark at the edge of his vision, even as his eyes fill with purple mist.

He feels… he feels like he’s been ripped apart by it, like it’s undoing his atoms, his essence, his self–

Pleasure and pain hit him like a mallet, and above him, Zenyatta comes again, the pleasure stealing all thought from him, coming and coming again, the purple attracting, absolute, as dark as a black hole, dragging Siebren deeper, and… and–

And then, just when Siebren feels his mind about to fracture even as he reaches out for that figure he cannot fully see behind his closed eyelids, the pressure, the tug, abruptly fades.

He slumps on the ground, blinking owlishly at the ceiling so far from him, the floor cool against his back.

Panting hard, shaking, trembling, blinking as his sight returns, Siebren feels, more than see, as the tendrils of purple retreat from him, and then his vision focuses again when Zenyatta climbs on him, his lithe frame heavy on his tired, aching limbs. Behind him, a halo of translucent arms bleeds from purple into gold.

The strident music washes away into a dull silence, then something sweeter, gentler, takes its place –the gentle tune that thrums under Zenyatta’s metal, in his core, soothing and alluring, like a caress after a slap.

Siebren opens his mouth, makes a strangled noise, and a golden hand touches his jaw, closing it.

He wanted this, but he’s shaking, vulnerable and weak now to its presence, yet still craving it, arching into it, into _him_–

“You know,” Zenyatta’s voice makes Siebren’s attention snap to him, every other sound muted and cottoned, “You should not experiment without someone else present.” His voice has a weird, distant echo, but Zenyatta does not sound displeased. “You’ve caused quite a mess.”

Siebren’s head is pushed to the side, gently, by the same golden hand.

His eyes arch to the door and he sees Akande there, tense and frowning, looking at them. Belatedly, his ears catch up with reality, and a blaring alarm, loud and explosive, jars his senses as it continues to flare again and again. There’s a flashing red light from somewhere at his right, a light going off together with the alarm.

It’s not as interesting as Zenyatta above him, though, and Siebren feels weirdly… sharp. Like he could stand and run through equations he’d never solved and be able to see them through to their obvious end… except he cannot move, the weight on him anchoring him down, and he shivers.

Akande is still looking at them as Zenyatta leans down, cupping his chin with one golden hand while his real hands slowly undo the clasps of Siebren’s pants. He is still hard, aching, even if the rest of his body is lethargic and his mind now alert and confused, but the delicate touches to his cock feel heavenly.

He has not stopped wanting this omnic, even now, and his body knows.

“Let me thank you,” Zenyatta murmurs, shifting, and Siebren gasps, mouth parted open, when he feels the wet clutch of Zenyatta’s valve slide over his cock, catching on it before Zenyatta impales himself, taking all of him inside. “But next time, you should know not to act without permission.”

Then, Siebren stops thinking –the warm valve around his cock is more compelling, and he’s aching, straining under the hold of arms that should not exist, the music wrapping around him and coaxing him on as Zenyatta moves on top of him, fucking himself on his cock with slow, deliberate thrusts.

Zenyatta moans, head thrown back, and the view from down below is captivating.

He is almost glowing, gold and teal swirling together in his forehead array, and Siebren aches to roll them around, but Zenyatta is keeping him pinned, and the melody around them keeps him subdued as he lets himself feel it, deep inside him, as pleasure rocks into him.

Yes, this is what he wanted, the music, the pleasure, Zenyatta–

When he comes, hips fucking upwards into Zenyatta, Siebren closes his eyes and shudders, gritting his teeth, pleasure strong enough to leave him winded, and then he slumps down on the floor, lazy and spent.

The hands holding him down fade away, and Zenyatta slumps a little as Siebren’s cock softens and slips out of him, a gush of slick and come pooling over his crotch and pants.

Siebren watches, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, admiring the view, noting down every detail, from Zenyatta’s cock to his glistening valve and then up, to his heaving chest and the way his metal seems to shine.

“You should rest, doctor,” Zenyatta murmurs, hand splayed on his chest to keep himself upright. “You seem tired.”

Oh –he does not feel tired at all. There is strength in his bones like he hasn’t felt in so long, and his mind feels… clearer. Sturdier, like someone had walked through it to clean the cobwebs and the dust.

He feels like if allowed to, he could solve any problem, reach further than he’s ever been able to, but as he looks around, he falters at the sight of Akande hovering close, frown still in place. Like he’s wary, like Siebren will do…

Something is not quite right, something…

Zenyatta slips off of him, and then stands up, a hand offered to help him get up from the floor. Siebren grabs it, blinking, and remains standing, not even hovering.

His body is almost heavy, he feels the gravity like a weight, pinning him down.

“Doctor Siebren,” Akande’s voice penetrates his thoughts, and he sounds steely. “You should follow his advice and rest.”

Pressing one hand on his forehead, Siebren frowns, and shakes his head, then nods. He wants to _work_, but something is missing, and it’s making him rather confused.

Perhaps… they are right. He should rest.

He makes a movement, twisting and stumbling towards the door, but then Zenyatta stands in front of him, pressing their bodies close –and zips his pants up. It hides him well, but not the mess they’ve made there.

“Ah… thank you,” he says.

“Will you be alright, going to your room on your own?” there’s something soft, gentle in Zenyatta’s tone, unlike his previous teasing.

“I… yes. Thank you. You are right. I need… rest.”

He leaves, only sparing a glance behind, brain clear but at the same time clouded with thoughts, exhaustion fighting the surge of energy he feels tingling under his skin, and the last he sees of Zenyatta is Akande wrapping one arm around him, tugging him close to his chest, expression clouded, still frowning, and Zenyatta tilting his head to welcome him.

Siebren doesn’t even realise how quiet the corridors are as he walks to his room in a daze.

So quiet.

Even the melody within his mind is deathly silent.

He does not realise this, and when he slumps on the bed, he falls asleep right away, and his dreams are, for one, quiet, soft and yielding.

The music cannot reach him, at least for now.


End file.
